


A Little Kindness

by edenbound



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23511850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenbound/pseuds/edenbound
Summary: Crowley's behaving a little differently, and it takes Aziraphale a while to see why.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 157





	A Little Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to go somewhere that matched the song "New Bird", by Kirsty McGee. It didn't, so I had think up a title all by myself, and if anyone had reminded me about how much I hate titles I might not have come back to writing. So there.
> 
> The song is still beautiful, though, and one day I will still write something in which Aziraphale lovingly, joyfully, piningly watches Crowley learn to be kind and express himself after Armageddidn't.
> 
> There's a brief reference to Crowley wearing women's clothes; not enough that I felt justified in tagging this as genderfluid Crowley, but yup, that's what's going on.

"That was very kind, my dear," Aziraphale says, unthinking, and then flinches at the sound of his own stupidity. But Crowley barely reacts -- lifts one shoulder in a shrug, perhaps, his eyes on the harassed waitress whose overfull tray he just rescued with a quick-snapped miracle.

"He pinched her," Crowley says, instead of arguing, " _pinched_ her. Where does he think he is? Not that it'd be okay anywhere else, but in this sort of establishment..."

Aziraphale frowns. Really, some humans...! "Perhaps we should tell her manager."

"I've gone one better," Crowley says. "He's got the worst case of haemorrhoids anyone has ever seen. He'll be a wonder in the medical literature. I've made some doctor's day here."

Perhaps, Aziraphale thinks, Crowley was simply too distracted to notice the compliment. He'll have to be more careful in future, that's all. And certainly Crowley seems delighted by his good/bad work, sniggering again when he spots the man shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

* * *

It is harder to ignore when Aziraphale comes out of the shop after closing it up to find Crowley helping a young woman gather up a sheaf of scattered papers (apparently showing a great deal of willing about crawling on the floor for them, but mostly just miracling the papers back into her arms, safe and dry). "My dissertation," she explains. "I needed to take it to be bound, and it's the last day, and the place I was going to take it is closed, and -- "

"Aziraphale can do it," Crowley says. He straightens up, tucking his hands in his pockets. "Can't you, angel?"

And of course he can and he does, though the result is rather more substantial-looking than the standard binding applied by the university library. The girl seems a bit nonplussed as she carries it away, with a complicated glance back at Crowley. He's stuck around, leaning artlessly against a wall in the background, and she seems to hope he'll follow her out of the shop again when it's done. She heaves a sigh, mutters something about all the cute ones, and lets herself out onto the pavement with a wave.

Aziraphale decides to test the waters. "I think she really needed help there, you know."

"Mm," Crowley says. He appears distracted by a discovery. "Aziraphale, did you know that they don't put proper pockets in women's jeans? I can't fit my hands in these!"

Aziraphale blinks. "I always thought that was one of yours, dear."

"Nah. Women usually have it bad enough. Thanks to your lot. Besides, I like women's clothes. Wear 'em myself. Obviously."

"They're not my lot anymore," Aziraphale reminds him. "Our own side, remember? You were -- you were very nice to her, really. You really had no reason to go out of your way -- "

"Thought it was you I was making go out of your way. Dinner?" Crowley asks, glancing at his watch. "Italian, maybe?"

* * *

Aziraphale is sure of it by the time he turns from unhelping a customer (divesting them firmly of three books) to find Crowley waiting there. Or... not waiting, in fact: his red head is bent over a large coffee table book with the glossiest of pages, alongside a worried-looking older woman. "It should look like this," he says, waving illustratively at -- Aziraphale strains his eyes -- the illustration of a rather resplendent plant with green and yellow leaves. "You're overwatering it, that's the problem."

"But it was _sold_ to me as -- "

"They don't know what they're talking about in some of these places," Crowley says, firmly. "This is what you've got. Only water it once a week, and make sure it has good drainage. Probably not too late to save it."

She departs without the book, Aziraphale is pleased to say, but nonetheless in the possession of Important Knowledge. That fact does give him a pleased glow; he doesn't mind helping customers, in fact he rather enjoys it, so long as they don't take the books away. And Crowley -- Crowley shuts the book and slides it back onto the shelf, precisely where the woman took it from.

"You're being very kind," Aziraphale says, with certainty. "You're being -- you're _lovely_."

Crowley clears his throat a little. "Yeah. Well. You, uh. You like it?"

Aziraphale is suddenly visited by a revelation. "You were doing it for -- "

"Yeah," Crowley says, and unaccountably he is blushing, Aziraphale could _swear_ to it. "Thought you'd -- well. I can stop, if it bothers you."

"No," he says, firmly, "no. It doesn't bother me. I... rather like it. I like seeing you free to be yourself."

"I wouldn't go that far!"

"But it's true," Aziraphale insists. "You were always kind. Especially to me, but you were _always_... Crowley, my dear, I should very much like to kiss you."

The nervous fidgety movement grinds to a halt. Crowley swallows, hard, and Aziraphale watches the bob of his throat with a pleasurable thrill. There is no reason to hold back, no reason not to be themselves, and Aziraphale's deepest self has wanted this for longer than he knows. He is hungry for it now, with the pleasant hunger of anticipation, the knowledge of a satisfying meal to follow. 

"Go on, then," Crowley says, still all angles, still strung tight as a bow. Aziraphale is gentle when he touches him, when he cups Crowley's face in his hands and draws him in. He takes it slow, kisses the corner of Crowley's mouth and then the soft dip in his upper lip. Crowley is trembling under his hands, and Aziraphale floods with pity, knowing how long Crowley has gone without kind touch, without simple intimacies.

As long, really, as Aziraphale has himself. He kisses him again, again, pulling Crowley against him, and all of a sudden Crowley is opening to it, letting him deepen the kiss, letting loose a soft hungry noise into his mouth. 

Aziraphale pulls back shaken, in the best possible way. His hands linger on Crowley's face, thumb sweeping over his cheekbone. "You're so kind to me," he tells him, and Crowley smiles -- a real smile, a smile of relief and joy and mischief all in one.

"I could be kinder," he says, heavy with innuendo, and Aziraphale laughs.


End file.
